Dead and Gone
by moonandwinter
Summary: "I want out of the game." Running away is easy when the world is distracted by death. Steve X Darcy. a different civil war ending.
1. Chapter 1

The day was sweltering with hordes of people out into the city, they celebrate or they mourn, but Darcy feels something akin to numbness as she slides down the familiar alleyway. The power is still out so she knows the cameras are not there to recognize her presence but she knows too someone is watching. Always someone watching.

She pulls the coat tighter, a thick grey wool too heavy for the August heat but she needs the comfort it gives. Her breath is even, heart steady. The choice was made for her with the death of Rogers and Darcy knows that all of her optimistic dreams of the team finding solid ground and coming back together had been blown to shit.

The numbness settles into her bones as she knocks quietly on the steel door, the crowds cheering or yelling, all of it too loud and chaotic for her to understand. The door is pulled open with a rush sucking the dirt around her feet into its darkness.

The man at the door doesn't look her in the eyes, he doesn't need too. There were very few people who knew about this location and those who did never needed to show identity. Darcy still nods a greeting, more habit out of anything and she's not even sure the man sees it but it comforts her anyway.

The swell of voices is cut off with click as the door is closed behind her, taking with it the light of day. She breaths in deeply as her feet carry her away from the heat and into a cool, dark interior. Darcy wants to smile, a comment about these spy people and their dark rooms, but it doesn't reach her face because too much has happened to her heart to make smiling seem like an act of treason.

A familiar face sits with her head in her hands, a table littered with papers and photos and a half empty bottle of amber liquid. Darcy hates this. The sorrow that comes with his death. People everywhere were mourning, words of prayer or wishes of _could have's_ being thrown about. Pointless because you can't undo death but it made them feel better. What would it be like, she mused, to allow herself to feel better using words. Words that had come so easy to her before, now stuck in her throat, thick and bitter and tastes like ash.

But she had to; god, she had to do this.

"I want out of the game." The words spill out in a quiet tumble and the numbness in her shakes. The woman looks up with red eyes and a tight mouth. Maybe to someone who hadn't been in the life would have seen a stony cold face, but Darcy saw pain, raw and new, and it confirmed her choice.

Maria Hill waits a heartbeat before nodding and the tight knot in her stomach loosens. The terms Darcy sets are clear. Death her only option, of a sort, and she tells Hill as much. No one knows if she made it out of the tower, though most had survived. A portion of the gleaming skyscraper that had housed some of earth mightiest heroes had burned during the war between Tony and Rogers… Between Ironman and Captain America.

Darcy had been there that day because of Jane. Her friend, boss, whatever, had been largely ignoring the tension building between the two teammates, instead focused on Thor and his cryptic messages. She understood the woman's interest lies with her heart, but Darcy knew that something terrible was brewing with the Avengers. Lockdown kept her inside its high-end lobby, white walls clean and beautiful and their gaudy splendor. Fire and screams and something that smells like acid frees her.

The second demand she gives Maria has the other woman raising a soot stained brow but she powers on knowing the numbness was settling in again, a void that resided somewhere in the bottom of her stomach.

The country that she'd been born and raised in had used laws and elections and political agendas to tear apart the team, demanding things from both the leaders that opposed. At war with each other, emotions were involved and those in charge only fueled the chaos and pressed and pressured until they broke, leaving so many people hurt and a Captain dead.

Canada offers her a refuge from this place and its anger and corruption, though she hesitates before telling the new director of SHIELD where exactly she wants to go. She thinks that maybe it's best that the other woman doesn't know the specifics and it seems she catches on because she nods once and begins flipping through drawers.

The walls are lined with gray metal cabinets, each with hundreds of thousands of papers, identification cards and birth certificates, some looking old and wrinkled because newly printed ones were too suspicious. Hills starts to pull files and her face becomes less tight as her hands have something to do and her mind isn't on the horrors of what's to come.

The funeral would be tomorrow but she'll be long gone. Darcy knows the numbness will fade and the loss will affect her as well but only in the way that occurs when someone who was close to the people you love dies; it's off and not quite right but the pain is for them and so you'll feel it all.

The minutes pass and she begins to twist the burnt edges of her coat, the crispy black fragments of wool crumbles between the fingers of her left hand and she remembers being _so close_ to the flames. Her right hand was red and raw with bubbles of skin filling with liquid and the coldness in her can't stop this pain because it fucking _hurts_ , but she had managed to wrap it tightly.

It'll be scarred but that she doesn't mind. They all had scars; those people who lived the life.

Hill looks up and her face is no longer closed off, though Darcy only sees the sorrow sitting second to something like respect. It's humbling, the look coming from someone who she herself respects. The feeling falls though, into the pit and she's left with the last request.

Hill argues with her here, and before, Darcy might have yelled and fought with words like weapons, but now she only stares with the numbness in her eyes. The argument dies in Hills mouth and she must see the resolve on her face because moments later Darcy is asked to stand by a spot on the wall.

She doesn't try to smile, but she does her best to conceal the emptiness in her as a picture is taken. It's put through a machine that looks older than her but Hill tells her it's because the technology is untraceable and Darcy nods, waiting.

The room has been designed this way for a reason, and as Hill's hand flies through papers, Darcy feels the void shake but she likes the lack of feeling, at least for now so she grits her teeth. There's a black backpack handed to her and the other woman speaks softly about the roads to take or to avoid. She offers her a car but they both know she won't take it.

They all have to think she's dead. There can be no trace because _she wanted out of the game_. For the first time in her life, Darcy wanted nothing more than to be alone with no one to care for and no one to die. No more.

The alley is far behind her and soon the city too. The backpack has a good chunk of money in it and she supposes it's all untraceable, which is the whole point of the Room. It's for those who need to disappear after Hell.

So that's what Darcy does. She vanishes into the cold mountains of Canada and stays there. People tend to forget those who were never really important and she fades from memory.

Two years and Darcy believes she is out of the game. She finally fells safe and alone and maybe not happy but she'll get there. And if not, she knows that this is ok. Happiness is for normal people who didn't know what she knew and who could smile and talk and not fear that somewhere in the world someone searches.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes the night allows her sleep, its darkness and quiet easing her into a dreamless abyss, but most nights she's awake and finds things to fill the time. Her living room is small but she's filled it with things that help, baskets of colorful yarn and a case of cheap pencils on top of black-bound sketchbooks. A brown and white tabby lounges on the edge of the second hand couch, flicking its chewed up tail back and forth letting her know he's awake and sees her.

The fall brings with it a cold wind, nothing like she'd been used to, and in that first year she had found the stray hiding under her porch nearly frozen but mostly wild. It had taken days and an endless amount of tuna and soft words to coax him out but once she did, he hadn't wanted to leave.

It was simple and after everything, Darcy needed simplicity. The wind rattled the hundred year old window pane and she finds that it's easier now to not jump and panic. Her heart beats harder still, but it's a slow dance compared to those first months. She shuffles to her kitchen and reaches for familiar things as the light stays off; this is one habit she keeps hold of even as the winter approaches.

Darkness is common here, far up into the mountains, and she might have feared the night at first but has since come to accept it. Darkness is not all so bad, if it means being free.

The tea kettle is old, as is everything she owns, and it sits a little lopsided because of a dent she put in it having thrown it at the wall some months ago. It still does its job, dented and off balance and she takes comfort in that, as it slowly heats up water.

The house she lives in is hers by all legal rights; as far as anyone knows. Purchased in cash and without trouble, it's old and was made for just one. One bedroom, one kitchen with a table and one chair, one bathroom, and one living room just big enough for one couch. It's more than she needs.

The town was a place she'd picked in private, a long time ago when she was someone else. It was perfect in the sense that it wasn't quite a town, but rather a collection of shops and a restaurant or two for the people who pass through. There was a logging town not too many miles east of here and people came and went, faces weary and unseeing, so it worked well enough. She needed to be in a place that wasn't quite a place.

Darcy had gotten a job quickly, which had scared her at first because she was new and people tended to notice new folk, especially pretty young women, but her quiet ways and cold demeanor turned them off and they soon moved on. It's ok to be forgotten, she tells herself, and she knows that it's the best thing for her. Everyone she loved was safer this way and if not, at least she was away from the life and the game and those people who had done such great and terrible things.

The screech of the tea kettle makes her blink and her hand stills mid-stitch. Darcy tries, oh god does she try to keep the memories from working their way in, but they often do and she fades into them only to come back out with the shriek of hot water and tears burning trails down her face.

Her sigh annoys the cat so he jumps from the comfortable nest he'd made by her feet to stretch lazily on the floor. His eyes drift to hers as if asking _, you going to shut that thing up_? Her lips tug but a smile never quite reaches it so she flips off the blanket and heads to the kitchen. It's lighter already, meaning that morning was on its way, the sun taking longer to breach the high mountains.

Darcy sighs again and makes the dark tea, careful not to use the burned hand. Coffee is something she gave up after coming here, the caffeine becoming dangerously like a crutch. Jittery and paranoid and not able to sleep, she'd nearly killed herself by running into the woods near her house, the snow of winter falling heavy and fast. Cat had found her gasping for air that never quite made it to her lungs. The cold didn't faze her, not with the panic and bitter taste of ash and acid, and that's what had scared her most. Death was less terrifying than being found.

Darcy had followed Cat home, letting the numbness fill her soul. It's ok to be forgotten, she'd repeated over and over.

Work was simple, nothing like what she had done before but at least it involved things she liked. The bookstore was a building that sat out of place with the others, but only with its contents, surrounded by a hunting shop, a small market store, and a few hardware fronts as well. You'd think with technology and whatnot that people wouldn't be into reading like they used to but she had found that winter was long and the folks here needed the stories to fill their own voids.

She arrives early, as she does every day she works, because the man and woman who own the store are nearly eighty and Darcy tries to get things in order before they come in. They had given her a set of keys her second week, trust and warmth in their eyes. It was an awful thing to feel shame so she allowed detachment to take its place.

It's halfway through the day, her re-shelving the books that had been left on the counter, when the bell dings above the front door. Darcy hates that her heart stutters every time, no matter how many days, weeks, years…

She flicks her eyes up and the numbness becomes dark with ire but she doesn't show it, not ever. Her face is stone and her hands do not stop as she ignores the man who moves close to her. Too close and she can feel his leer and the stink of animal's no longer living.

His voice is rough from years of smoking, the scent assaulting her nostrils with that of furred corpses and metal.

"Got something for me?" He mutters and she thinks he's trying to be sexy but it makes her stomach twist painfully. He comes in twice a month in between poaching trips or lumber runs, and she hates every time he does. Darcy think too, that he comes in only when the owners are gone to lunch, leaving her alone.

"Would you like to buy a book?" She offers politely but her words drip with ice. He doesn't flinch back, though she can see the heat of anger flicker in his muddy eyes. Her heart stammers again but this time it's not in panic, but in anticipation.

She'd like to hurt him. Inflict pain in a way that she had never wanted to do before and Darcy understands that it's not just him that makes her itch to hurt, but she shoves the thoughts aside.

He moves away to the window and she knows he's looking for the owners. Her gloved hand grips the heavy book she was going to put back and wonders if it would damage him, bruise him, maybe even cut him.

Something twists his face in disappointment and her grip relaxes. The store, this life she built, is more important than this asshole so she bites the inside of her cheek. His body comes to stand next to her but now she knows he's not getting away with shit so she allows her face to show the smallest amount of the ice inside of her.

"No?" She waits as his jaw ticks under the wiry unkempt thing he called a beard before continuing. "Then have a good day."

Darcy turns and takes two steps before his hand shoots out and twists her arm, the book falling to the floor with a heavy thud. The pain blinds her for only a second before her free hand crashes into his nose, closed fist and tight. Blood gushes and gushes and he curses but she see the red and then there's a ding of the door but now it's not the bookstore but the lobby and there's screams. Fire and acid and blood because there's a body in front of her, dead eyes staring but she has to cover her hand so she cries as she tears their shirt to use as a bandage. Her blood and their blood and she can't breathe because of the acid and finally shadows creep into the edges of her dream until it fills it up and she is swallowed by the darkness.

Home, she thinks she hears, someone says home .


	3. Chapter 3

There's a thundering so loud that it's the only thing she hears, but Darcy waits because this is familiar, the moments after. She breathes in and counts and exhales, and she repeats this several times until her heart is slowing and the feeling returns. They always hurt her, the attacks, in a way that can't be recovered from easily. The muscles had clenched tightly and she feels their resistance to moving but Darcy needs to get up because the voices that reach her ears are the owners and they sound angry.

Something sticky coats the front of her sweater but she ignores it, swinging her feet over the edge of the couch. After everything stops spinning, her mind takes in the surroundings and she welcomes the sight. There is an ancient coffee table, scarred and stained, with an old fashioned till machine sitting on a pile of damaged books. Her neck is stiff but she twists it to look, thankful that her purse and car keys sit next to the back door that leads to the private parking lot. Everything is brown and yellow and old but she likes the break room because it is comfortable, in that out of place kind of way.

Apologizing to that man was the last thing she wanted to do but Darcy knew she would; to keep her job, to keep her place here in the mountains. Her feet and muscles protest but she stands anyway, risking a glance at the mirror over the patched up couch.

Darcy avoids her reflection for this exact reason; the person who stares back is a stranger. Gone was the color that had stained her pale cheeks, instead they look shallow and lifeless. Her hair is pulled back into a tight braid, but even now she could see the once warm brown waves look waned and dull.

But it was the eyes that makes her look away. Darcy feels the ice settle around her heart because that's what helps keep the look of being utterly lost from making it to her eyes. She hears the voices hushed and her heart stutters. It takes a second for her to shake off the apprehension because she knows she _has_ to do this.

There is an apology on her lips as she pulls the curtains aside and moves into the storefront. It is not a very large room, the walls lines with books all the way up to the ceiling, and two smaller shelves in the middle of the floor, but it's made even smaller with the large man who looms by the door. His face is hidden from her but the set of his shoulders makes the words die in her mouth.

Gerald Owens, the owner, rushes to her and takes her good hand while Mary, his wife, runs gentle fingers down her arm, skimming the bruise that's developing. Darcy ignores them, staring now at the silent man. Her breathing comes ragged and harsh and the drumming of her heart becomes _so loud,_ but she hears Gerald speak, still.

"He got here just in time." He says and Darcy knows the old man is talking about the stranger. His face is still turned away from her but there is a stiffness in the way he stands that makes the panic bubble and twist. He's tall and broad shouldered and even through the thick brown coat the loggers wear, she knows his body is solid muscle.

"You smashed Henry Jackson's son pretty good, had him bleeding all over." Mary whispers, but Darcy can't move, she can't speak.

"And then _he_ got here right before that bastard could hurt you anymore." Gerald tries to get her attention but Darcy waits and she wills it to be ok. Her body is trembling and there's hitch in her brain.

 _I don't know him_ , she tells herself, _it's ok to be forgotten_ , she repeats.

But then he turns around and Darcy sees that this is not real. It's not real and it's not ok and there is a tilt in the world because she knows those eyes and they are dead.

They are dead and gone and his face is the same and so is the detached way he watches her with his sharp blue eyes but she can't… So she moves.

The back door to the shop slams shut and her car starts and the gravel kicks up and her gasping fills the inside of her shitty car. Darcy doesn't look back because then it'd be real and it _can't_ be real. Her house isn't far, but her hands are white as they grip the steering wheel and the car doesn't want to go faster so she screams at it but it doesn't help.

Tears blind her but she can't stop and the air is vanishing.

The house is there and she runs inside, starts grabbing things. Panic kills her senses, no hearing, no smelling, no taste. But she _feels_ everything. The bile rises and ash fills her lungs but she can't breathe. There's no air left in this world because it's _not real._

Darcy trembles violently and collapses. Her face hits the wood floor and her precious things scatter and somewhere behind her, Cat hisses. But the air is all gone and that's ok because that means the darkness creeps in and she's ok with darkness taking her.

Her body usually folds in on itself but somehow she's sitting up and against something solid; and it moves slowly, a push and pull. There is a warmth on her chest, splayed on her skin and it pushes and pulls so she tries to match it because it feels nice, this warmth. She breathes with it, in and out, and the darkness eases from the edges of her vision.

Cat hisses but she keeps her eyes closed because this is ok, this feeling. In and out, with something warm and god, did she miss warm. Ice keeps her safe, she knows that, but it hurts to be so cold.

Her body is shivering but, in a way, it's relaxed as well, as much as it can be after an attack. Darcy thinks that this warmth feels safe too but she can't think about it because the warm thing flinches and her eyes pop open as the world tilts back.

And she remembers.

Her voice is raw and its foreign and she hates it, but all she can do is scream, no. No no no!

The room spins wildly as she scrambles away, bile rises up from her stomach and into her mouth, but she needs to get away from the warmth, to get away from _him_ so she backs against the wall and fights the panic because she needs to see.

His eyes are impassive, showing nothing while he crouches on the floor and she knows he helped her breathe but she doesn't know why. He's tense and he watches her too, but the way his jaw moves makes the gears start to turn in her head.

Anger is bright and it's hard and Darcy knows her face is flushed but he doesn't move or speak or even register her reaction.

"Are you real?" She demands, because it's what she wants to hear, that he isn't real so she can stay and live here and it'll be ok, but his eyes flicker with pity before they snap back to empty and he nods.

The sharp metal box of pencils flies through the air and hits his chest only to bounce off and scatter the wood pieces across the floor. And then she's in the kitchen reaching for the kettle and when she goes to throw that too, he's in front of her and stills her arm.

Pain twists up from her elbow, sharp and fresh from the damage Henry Jr had done and her face must show it because he drops his hand and backs away. Darcy throws the kettle at the wall instead because this _isn't right_ damn it. None of it is right.

"You are dead!" She screams or tires to but her voice is harsh and it cracks. He stiffens but doesn't move from the doorway and she hates him, god, she fucking hates him.

"You are dead." She says again but this time it's a sob and she hates that too but this was _her_ world and he destroyed it again. Why? Why did he hate her so much? Couldn't she have this life?

The minutes tick by and her face is hot with tears but she doesn't make a sound. Sounds draw attention and sobs make people notice so she clamps her mouth shut as her body shakes.

"You are too." His reply is stiff and his voice grates but he's not wrong. The wind rattles her window and the sky is dark and Darcy knows that she was never out of the game.

They stare at each other and she feels something inside of her that isn't anger or panic or numbness. But she pushes it away because he's starting to look around and not just at her but his glances are quick and assessing.

He looks up and she knows, then, he's checking for bugs.

"I'm dead, Rogers." Darcy bites out harshly and his face snaps down to hers, the intensity of his eyes has her resentment growing but she kicks it down.

"How did you find me?" She demands now, crossing her arm to pull her sweater in but it's still covered in the sticky substance so she fists her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

His face is blank but there's an understanding dawning in his eyes and she thinks her heart stutters again. Cat is hisses angrily, having slunk into the room. He stands in-between them and Darcy feels the tug on her lips but as always, it never becomes a smile.

"Shoo, Cat. I've gotta get answers before you attack him." She waves her hand at the tabby and he darts behind her. He doesn't hiss but she can feel the animosity coming from him and it reassures her.

The man who was once called Captain America raises a hand and scrubs his face. Its got a weeks' worth of stubble and his hair is overlong and dark, but she knows that face. She'd only met him once before, but she'd know it anywhere.

"I wasn't looking for you." He admits quietly, his eyes go from hard to weary and then to something like frustration. "I was passing through, looking for work."

His words aren't edged with anger or bite and she thinks he's frustrated with himself. It's not easy to read him and she's not really trying to because she doesn't want him here. She wants to go back to this morning and have everything be ok.

"Work." She repeats and the word hangs in the air between them because she knows what he used to do. And she knows that he's not doing it anymore.

"Logging, mining, manual labor, anything really." His face is drawn and there's shadows so deep under his eyes, Darcy thinks she'd get lost in them but she stops herself because he's interrupted her life and that's not ok.

"And you are dead." The words are punctuated and it sounds like a statement but it's really a question. He nods solemnly and there's that thing that's rising in her chest again.

"Looks like we're just a couple of unlucky zombies." It falls from her mouth, easy and with no thoughts and it makes her brain skip a beat. A joke, and it hurts her because she's not that girl anymore.

He doesn't smile but his eyes aren't as grim as he nods and the feeling in her chest is expanding. Darcy shivers now because the adrenaline is fading and there is a chill in the air. He notices and she can see his hands clench though neither move.

But the room is cold because the door was left open and it's because of this that he hears the car first. Darcy catches on when his body tenses and he twists to shield her.

It's dark outside and the gravel crumbles under heavy tires.


	4. Chapter 4

Darcy's heart is thundering again and the ash is back in her throat but the air doesn't vanish like it typically would. She thinks it's because he's here and he's warm but she hates that thought so she pushes it down and concentrates on the intruder. Even with Rogers's blocking the way almost completely, she can still see the chaos of her living room in the deep shadows of late dusk.

The lights are off, they usually always are, so when the person enters, he stumbles on her scattered things and curses.

"Damn it, she better not be hurt." He grumbles and there's alarm in his familiar voice. With as much force as she could, Darcy shoves at Rogers, but he won't move, not even a little.

The lights flicker to life, bright and yellow, and her eyes adjust quickly enough to see the owner of the bookstore standing in her doorway. It takes a moment to register that he's got a double barrel shotgun pointed directly at them, or rather at Rogers.

"What are you doing!?" Darcy demands roughly, her voice is loud and raw. There's a shifting in her stomach, something that makes her nervous for _him_ , which is completely unwelcome and she has a distinct desire to kick him, hard, and in the spot that would get him to move.

She settles for cursing him internally.

"Jesus, girl!" The old man wheezes, still holding the heavy gun high with shaking arms. His wrinkled face is twisted with fear and anger, and it only makes this more complicated. "Tell me to shoot him and I will."

"No!" She gasps, shocked and afraid.

"No, Mr. Owens, it's ok." Darcy tries desperately to keep her voice calm and reassuring. While it's clear he's not completely convinced, he at least lowers the gun. There's a new kind of apprehension that she tries to kill, but the numbness seems to evade her.

This time when she shoves at Rogers, he finally moves, though Darcy can still feel the waves of unease coming off him. She ignores it mostly, and makes her way to Gerald Owens, careful not to trip over the disaster on her floor. His eyes don't leave the other man, not until Darcy is standing in front of him.

"I'm ok." Her voice is soft and there's a way she's looking at him that she hopes will quell his questions and he'd leave. There's a moments pause where she thinks that he'll go easy but Darcy knows this man and his stubborn ways.

The rafters above their heads creak as the winds start and the pane of glass rattles, as it does when the gusts come down the mountains. She might jump once, but it's very small, and that says something for her composure right then.

"Like hell you are." He is gruff and his eyes flick between Rogers and her and she's fighting the urge to push him out the door. Before she can, he points his words at the ex-hero, who hasn't moved or spoken and whose face is unreadable. The panic is eating its way up her throat again so she closes it off and wills the numbness to come back so she can breathe like normal.

Mr. Owens voice is sharp and there's an undertone of some emotion that Darcy tries not to hear because it's a complication _she doesn't want._ "I don't know who you are, but she does and I can't help but feel like that's not a good thing. You know, lots of people who come through here are running from something."

The room suddenly becomes a steel-trap, a dangerous road, and a terrible truth. Darcy's whole body stiffens ten-fold and she knows Rogers' does too, and damn it, her lungs are really burning now but Mr. Owens is still talking.

"And that's ok. But I'll be damned if the thing she's running from comes here. Is that what's happening right now? Cause' if it is, I'll have to shoot you." He's rasping heavily and the gun is raised again. But she watches Rogers and when he turns his impassive gaze to her, he blinks.

The room is spinning and there's dark spots in her eyes. It's right when she usually falls to the floor in a pathetic heap, that she feels the warmth on her chest and the solid at her back. There's the push and pull too, the same as before, so she breathes with it.

It's easier this time, there's not the fatigue that often keeps her down, so she risks opening her eyes and moving her good hand to cover the warmth on her chest. The ceiling is the color of rich butter, with cracks that look like veins running from the corners. She keeps her eyes there until the sounds of rushing waters fade.

The old man stutters incoherently, and she knows he'd just seen Rogers move too quickly across the room.

She curses loudly as she shoves away from the solid chest and paces a few feet away. Cat is perched on the arm of the couch, watching the commotion unfold with curious eyes. She sighs heavily before turning around to face the men who seem adamant on disrupting her life.

There's a thoughtful look in the old man's gaze that Darcy can't bear to see, so she stares at some place above his head, or at least tries to. Rogers runs a large calloused hand across his face, an age old sign of weariness that she too feels.

"You forgot to breathe." The Captain mumbles as way of explaining, to either her or Gerald Owens, but it's not what matters. The shift in her stomach is all wrong, at least she thinks it is. The younger man is staring at her and the square set of his jaw is ticking, but she sees too, the concern in his deep blue eyes. And she looks at her boss, whose grey eyesbrows are raised and there's about a thousand questions sitting there.

Her brain is spinning because maybe she can save this, maybe if she says the right things and keeps her face on, this might be ok. There's a quiet in the small room, and the cold that drifts in through the door doesn't bother so much.

"Darcy?" Mr. Owens asks after too much time had passed and she sees Rogers stiffen. She fights the urge to roll her eyes, instead focusing on the way to fix this.

"He's an old friend and no, he's not the… _reason_." The words are not quite true but they aren't a lie either so she keeps her eyes on Gerald's hoping that he'd see and it'd be ok. There's something like suspicion in his milky brown gaze and his lips thin tightly, but he nods and takes her word, at least for now.

The emotion that has pulled at her, now claws its way up and it squeezes her heart. She didn't want this type of compassion. God, she hated it because that meant things were complicated now and she had _died_ because everything had been too complicated.

"I can get him to leave." The old man whispers and she contemplates the offer for only half a second before shaking her head and offering him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. It's probably a grimace but the old man nods in that understanding way he does.

"We got some catching up to do, I suppose." She adds quietly. It's not a lie, really, because she's got questions of her own, many that would probably be left unasked. Gerald looks like he's about to protest but thinks better of it, and by the grace of god, he turns to go.

Rogers is not looking at her now as her boss hobbles up to him, the growl of his voice making it clear he was issuing a frim warning. This, too, makes her heart clench painfully. Where did the numbness go? Everything was better with it.

Darcy closes her eyes and inhales deeply, hoping to hell that everything would go back to normal. There was just one thing, one very important piece of information she _needed_ to know.

"Mr. Owens?" Her voice is thin and strained and even she hears the worry in it. "Did you call the police?"

His chuckle is deep and raspy, making her eyes pop open in surprise; the sound being so out of place for the situation. Rogers is back to staring at some point over her tattered brown couch, but she sees the way his chest stops moving. They both needed to know.

"No, girl. I figured it wasn't so smart." Gerald's face is open and understanding and that feeling squeezes her heart again. "Besides, I was ready for a fight."

He moves to leave after glaring at the other man, and she feels it; the complicated connection, and the numbness isn't there to stop it. Darcy is at the door in four steps, her gloved hand resting shakily on his thin arm. He looks back in surprise and it's because she's never been not cold, at least as far as anyone here knew. But he had come to make sure she was safe and it was awful to feel so heartless because she wasn't. She had tried, but she just wasn't.

"Thank you." It's whispered and pained and everyone in the room could hear the way it's torn from her but she means it, despite never wanting to.

The old man smiles softly and tells her to take a couple days off and there might be a shine of moisture in his eyes, but she doesn't want to see it so she drops her hand. She waits until he's in his truck and backing out of the long gravel drive, and further still until all noises and lights were gone from view. Only then does she close the door with a quiet click.

The house is quiet too, all except the creaking rafters and the sound of Cat scratching the bottom of the couch.


	5. Chapter 5

There were choices to make now that the almost comfortable life Darcy had been living for more than two years had been disrupted suddenly. With her boss on his way back into town, hopefully convinced that she wasn't in danger of the mysterious man, she had to now consider her options.

But the stress and chaos of the day had done terrible things to her body and mind, leaving her desperate for quiet. At least for a little while.

The room she turns to is a mad house of objects flung every which way, but she's not worried about it, not with Rogers standing crossed armed in the middle of it all. He's staring at her, and while his face is bare, Darcy can see he, too, was working through what to do next. It's not easy to ignore him, with the massive height and build, and the disquiet that emanates from him, but the palpable exhaustion she feels is soul deep.

Cat rubs against her leg, his way of comforting her, and it helps a little. So the first decision she makes was to gather the small tabby up into her arms and walk to the kitchen. She has to slide past Rogers as he continues his silent assault, which may have bothered her greatly before, but now it's exactly the kind of quiet she needs.

Darcy focuses on breathing as she puts Cat on the table and reaches for his bowl. It's feels good to busy herself with simple choices and it eases her anxiety little by little. Contented purrs makes the stiffness in her shoulders relax, and in these uncomplicated moments she's sort of ok again. Like this might be a normal day, where her world hadn't been shaken to its core for the fourth, or was it fifth, time.

Cat eats lazily and without worry, his tail flicking happily back and forth. She scratches his head affectionately then turns to look for the next task, all the while avoiding the man's eyes. The kettle is by the foot of the table and she grabs it, turns it around a few time, and is glad to see that the new dent is smaller than the other one. It takes only moments to get the stove cleared and the water set to heat, but she can hear Rogers shift on his feet, signaling his want to speak.

 _Damn._

"So he knows your name?"

Darcy froze for a fraction of a second, trying to discern any emotion in what he had said, but she couldn't. So she tries to distract herself and allow for time to decide what she wanted to tell him and whether or not she _should_.

It's while turning to hold up a finger, the universal signal for give me a _freaking second_ , when she sees the stains on her glove. It's a dark red, almost brown, that's splatted across the once white fabric. She curses and blinks a few times to be sure it's real, frustrated to find that it is.

She frowns at it, knowing it was the last one she owned. Bleach isn't something she liked using and the black glove she'd worn up until a few months ago, had been destroyed by a cat-who-shall-not-be-named.

Ignoring the man becomes even more difficult when he's watching her intently, but she has to in order to concentrate on peeling it off, finger by finger, until the pink and white flesh was exposed. The material went right into the bin, and she promptly does the same to the navy blue sweater, knowing it was a memory she didn't need. The long black tank-top leaves her partially exposed, and yet she oddly feels no reservations.

Because he knows. He lived _the life_. They all had scars, one way or the other.

The steel kitchen sink is deep enough to lean into it, maybe having been made to wash clothes in. After everything today, Darcy is simply happy that she doesn't cry when the warm water starts to flow along the uneven divots that run down her right arm and hand. The burns don't hurt anymore, nor do they look so bad, not nearly as obvious as they had been in the beginning, but it's a habit to cover them.

Maybe he can sense her need for silence, because he sits then and watches her move about small house. The living room is picked up quickly enough, mostly because she shoves the bags of clothes onto her bed and sweeps all of the pencils into the corner to be dealt with later. She takes a second to stack her sketchbooks neatly, not wanting to damage them.

The kettle whistles loudly, making her start, but before she can reach it, Rogers is already standing. There's a moment of hesitation on his part, and she's positive he's asking if it's ok. Despite everything that had happened that day and all those years ago, Darcy _doesn't_ want to fight so she nods and continues to straighten the area.

All the while, she's thinking about her choices. Leaving town shouldn't be terrible, but the idea was daunting. If Rogers really was 'off the grid' in the permanent kind of way, maybe she didn't have to go. But then there was the matter of Gerald Owens having seen him. Not many people here pay much attention to the men who go back and forth during logging season, but he was _definitely_ noticed by her boss and maybe even Henry Jr. How long until someone recognizes him and sees his connection to her? Questions would be asked. Things would get problematic.

It's after the third cabinet is closed, that she sighs. The man can't seem to find the tea, which she can't really blame him for as everything is organized in her odd way. With a light elbow, she nudges him out of the way and twists the lid off a small porcelain jar that sits in the corner. The brew is sweet, a little fruity, and she pours him one as well, hoping he'd wait and drink before demanding answers.

He sits at the table, the steaming cup sitting abandoned as he watches her. The headache that had been wreaking havoc behind her eyes, slowly starts to dissipate as she takes a sip of her own mug, hip resting against the counter.

"How do you even remember me?" Darcy asks suddenly yet quietly, hoping that he'd forget about his previous question because she wasn't quite ready to decide what she was going to say.

A single eyebrow raises, and it's obvious that he knows she's deflecting, but he answers anyway. Small favors, at least.

"I remember meeting you once with Thor and Jane." He pauses to raise a hand to rub his eyes roughly. He looks older and wearier in the way a person gets when their life took an unexpected turn into shitsville. She gets that. "The big guy would show us videos and photo's you or Jane had sent. He was better at using a phone than I was."

There's a far off look in his eyes that's tinted with a sad kind of warmth, until he realizes what he said and his face snaps back to blank.

But Darcy nods, and there's this lump that's developing in her throat. It's been years since she's heard her best friend's names and it's like the day she died all over again. For those few moments, he too looked like he was seeing ghosts, even if it were just in memory.

And before she knew it, she was answering his question. It tumbles out like she'd been waiting to tell someone for so long and really, that's mostly why she doesn't stop herself.

"Hill fought me on my name. Said it was dangerous to keep it, but I didn't think I could do this with another name, you know? Live any life being called something I'm not. Like, someone would say, hey Lisa or Hi Jenn, and I wouldn't respond. I just… I needed to keep it."

The wall that he's been hiding behind starts to come down, little by little, and it makes her stomach flip curiously. She tells herself it's because they are reconnecting with a world neither belonged too anymore, and maybe she'll believe that eventually.

"I get that." There's a tilt to his lips, much like a smile in a way that's both soft and hard. "I kept mine too."

She can't stop the way her eyebrows hitch up and her eyes go a bit wide, because keeping his name was about the dumbest thing he could do. Nobody knew who Darcy was, but Steve Rogers? Text books, newspapers, history classes, T.V. He had been everywhere. Probably still is.

But the man who was sitting in front of her now only looked slightly similar to the American poster boy. His overlong hair was darker, whether it was dyed or stained from the work, she didn't bother asking, but there were other subtle differences too. The darkness under his eyes and the stubble that graced his previously clean cut jaw were just the obvious ones.

"I go by Steven. Some of the crew call me Stevie, which is fine too, but my last name is different at least."

"Hill fight you on it?" Darcy asked while her scarred hand mindlessly stoked Cat's head. She looks up when her question is met by silence.

"You don't have to tell me anything. I get it." She offers quickly, and it's true. Darcy wasn't sure if she was going to tell him anything else. Maybe.

The atmosphere is heavy as his long fingers start to play with the handle his mug. It's a distraction while he thinks, she knows this, so she gives him time.

It's not long though, and after he takes a small drink from the cup, he settles her with a cautiously open look.

" _No one_ knows I'm alive. Except you."

Darcy wants to ask how. God, she wants to know every detail because from everything she knew about that day, he should be six feet under. But she doesn't ask because he's opening up and it feels disturbingly nice to _talk_ to someone. To him. So she doesn't push or pry.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Darcy says suddenly. The thought just pops into her head and the strain of the day must have killed her filter. "Being dead to everyone."

"Yea. Yea it is." His shoulders were dropped and he had the same look of bone deep exhaustion that she feels. Even ex-hero's must still feel the weight of world.

The yawn that she's been fighting doesn't wait any long, even as she tries to push it down. Darcy is finally taken over by the desire to just pass the hell out into what she hoped would be dreamless sleep. He takes this as his cue, and when he stands, she realizes she doesn't want him to go. There's the odd type of companionship that comes with the struggles of being removed from their world, and whether or not she likes it, it's there.

"You can stay the night." The offer slips out before she can stop to think, but even then, she knows she means it. The house is painfully quiet and the words hang in the air between them as she curses herself internally.

His face is mixed with shock and embarrassment and for the first time in two and a half years, she wants to laugh.

"On the couch." She mumbles, covering her face with her hands. Stupid. She was so stupid. Maybe if she just walks into her bedroom, closes the door, and hides under the blanket, he'll leave. Even though a part of her wishes the opposite. Why? Good god, what was wrong with her?

The sound of his chuckle warms her in terrible ways, but it draws her eyes up out of her hands. He looks much more like _him_ right then. A hand rubs the back of his neck, and he's got a bit of color on his cheeks, which she is trying to ignore. Failing, but still.

"I should probably get back to the hotel. I've got a lumber run in the morning." It's the most casual thing he could say, and it somehow makes him seem that much more normal. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and when the wind rattles the window, she doesn't jump. "It was nice. To talk."

Darcy hums her agreement, not quite trusting herself with words. This day, she was positive she'd spoken more than the last six months combined.

He nods to her and turns, taking two steps before slowly turning back around. Her brows are raised in question and she thinks for a second that he'll stay, but he opens and closes his mouth as if he forgot how to speak. Maybe it was the insanity of the day, the stress, the panic, and then the overwhelmingly easy companionship, but Darcy found herself unable to refrain from wanting to see him again, if only to talk some more.

"If you don't have plans, I'm apparently free tomorrow." She hesitates, refusing to look at him, instead concentrating on running her thumb along the rippled skin of her right palm. "I can make dinner. We can talk some more." She shrugs, hoping that he doesn't see this as some sort of permanent thing. Because it was nice to not hide herself in his presence, but she also doesn't want to be found by anyone else.

"Good. I mean yea. That sounds good, if you're ok with it." She looks up to see his gaze on her hand, guilt and something like hope swirling around those blue eyes. Her stomach flips again and this time she absolutely refuses to think about its implications.

Nodding is the safest thing she can do, since her mouth seems to be getting her into more trouble, so she does slowly and with honesty.

And just like that, Darcy had welcomed the thing she'd been running from into her house. Not him, not really, but he was a part of the game, even if he was on the sidelines now, and she knew deep down, that one day it will catch up to her.

But as he finally leaves, a small light in his eyes that hadn't been there earlier that day, she couldn't bring herself to regret it. It's not every day two dead people from the same world cross paths.


	6. Chapter 6

Darcy jerks awake suddenly and without warning. Her entire body was rigid and it had become, at some point in the night, twisted in the layers of colorful blankets. It takes a few seconds to work through the fog and identify which part of her dream had caused such a _violent_ reaction but when she does, the hardness of ice begins to settle back into her heart.

Cat had jumped off the bed the moment she had shot upright, tugging the covers with her. Now he sits on the wood floor looking up at her with big round eyes, the dim light of her alarm clock illuminating his features.

She has to squint to see the time, cursing when she does.

It's four am and the chaos of yesterday is set aside as new and terrible questions present themselves. What's worse, was that Darcy had a feeling that the numbness she had adopted to make her life easier, was not going to be effective against what was to come later that day.

But she would try. Damn it, she was going to try so _fucking hard_ to be cold and unfeeling because the only question that she _should_ have been asking Stevie-boy last night, was how the fuck he knew where she lived.

And to that matter, why hadn't he left the shop before she had regained consciousness. He had the perfect out; a stranger walking in on a struggle, stopped it, and could have vanished before anyone knew better. Instead, he either followed her back to her house, which she doubted because of the time differences, or he had known where she lived before hand. With these questions come a nauseating blackness that settles into her stomach. It tastes like betrayal and bitterness.

Her house is colder than usual, not having had the mind to turn the heat up before falling quickly and deeply to sleep the night before. It makes getting out of the warm security of the covers harder, but she has to. There is a restlessness that comes with anger and it forces her to move.

The need for distraction takes her to the kitchen where two cups sit in the sink, the sight of which makes her sneer. Rage felt like acid, burning through her veins, and eating away the warmth she had felt with him.

Darcy's instincts demand action in the form of violence. Aggressive and careless.

But she doesn't give in because that's not who she wants to be, not at all. So she does the only thing she can think of that would help.

She cleans as if the world depended on it.

The living room was first; pencils, papers and stray clutter from her shock induced packing was gathered up and put back. Floors swept and mopped, walls washed too. And then her room, bed made with the clothes put back into their respective drawers, cobwebs dusted away from their corners. Soon the kitchen was scrubbed spotless, sink, stove, and floors done. And finally her bathroom. It shined like it was new, rather than 70 some years old.

And the entire time, Darcy was going over the events of yesterday. Over and over and over, trying to figure out what his game was. What did he want from her?

It makes it easy for her to build a wall around her heart, though it's flimsy and thin compared to before. Her life here had been _good_. Not perfect but not dangerous either and that's what she needed. Safety, or something like it. If he had been watching her, keeping tabs on her, who's to say he wasn't still involved with the others? Was he working for S.H.I.E.L.D. or even Stark? The department of missing people who knew too freaking much?

Darcy curses and barely resisted the urge to throw heavy metal objects around her kitchen. She settles for chopping wood behind the house and out of view of any curious eyes, and while she was by for no means a pro at using an axe, it helps expel some of the violence in her. Two dozen logs, piled neatly by her back door, until finally she was satisfied. Sweaty and panting, but better for it.

By one o'clock, she was showered, physically drained, and ready for either the numbness to take her, or for the anger to burn her. Either one was better than the foolish camaraderie she had felt last night.

Darcy lounges on her couch, staring mindlessly at the red bricks that line the old fireplace. Cat was curled up by her feet and a forgotten scarf, halfway knitted, lay across her blanketed lap. Thoughts she had wanted desperately to ignore began to wriggle through her walls, making it hard to hold onto her feelings of betrayal.

Rogers, or rather Steven, had been closed off and unreadable, sure, but he would need to be if he were 'dead' and off-the-grid, right? He _could_ have been telling her the truth, and while it clearly wasn't the whole truth, that didn't mean he was trying to pull her back into the game. She couldn't just ignore the glaring questions that had awoken her that morning but maybe jumping to conclusions was the wrong thing to do.

Still…

Was it really a coincidence that their paths had crossed?

After some time, Darcy realizes she's staring at her hand, the scars marking the pale skin with deep crevasses and shallow patches of pink stains. He had such a look of guilt when he noticed them that she couldn't help but wish she had spared him the sight.

The scars, to her, were a reminder that the life she had once thought was a fabulous adventure, had become tainted. The people she had met and allowed into her heart had been pawns in a larger game of governments and war, and they let their fear control them. Made them do terrible things to each other.

They were supposed to be the _hero's_. The people with the powers and gifts and skills to defeat whatever was thrown their way but they let their petty bickering and vile politics blind them to such a state that nothing else mattered. Especially not stupid ex-interns, who only wanted to help, but had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had bit her in the ass that day…

The day she 'died'.

All Darcy had wanted to do was pull them back together, as a team, by somehow convincing them to help Thor discover and defeat the _thing_ that had the Norse God in such a state of alarm. But what had she gotten for attempt to help? Scars on her body and on her soul.

She didn't matter, at the end of the day, and apparently neither does saving the world. The only thing they cared about was power and who got to have it. Typical.

Cat, who had thus far been quiet and content, cried loudly making her start. The furry little bastard was rubbing his head against her hand, demanding that she pet him. It was amazing how he knew the darkness of her thoughts, though it could have easily been the tears that were running in hot streaks down her face or the silent shaking of her body.

Either way, Darcy runs her fingers along his back for several minutes, as the tears slowly stopped. She continued to scratch his head, attempting to bury the sorrow in her heart, until the tabby was satisfied, leaping off the couch and wandering into the kitchen.

Ah. Right.

It was past four in the afternoon and she _had_ said there would be dinner… Despite her confusion and anger, food would be made. Besides, she reasoned, if shit hits the fan, this would be the last time she would get to use the comfortable little kitchen.

It helped, in a way, to know that she was prepared to run. Not that she wanted to, but a girl needed to have a plan. There was a go-bag ready, hidden in her front closet. Money, clothes, a few other necessities, and her freshly charged taser.

A fire was lit, slowly ridding the room of its chill. The sun was setting quickly, casting shadows outside the kitchen window as Darcy started to prepare the food. It's slow and simple work, giving her more time to cool off and consider the best way to get answers. Yet, the more she thought about it, the more concerned she became.

What if he didn't come? What if he was already halfway across Alberta?

The knife goes still in her hand, halfway through slicing mushrooms. There is a new kind of panic that's lurching inside of her now. A type of anxiety that comes with the possibility of being stood up, in the worst kind of way.

Darcy would never get her answers, then. She would be forced to run, but even then, she'd always think someone was watching her. How long until they decided to haul her in? Would they imprison her for running? Would they think she was giving away Avenger secrets?

Oh God. What if he does come but he brings the authorities? She'd never be able to get away.

Before Darcy knew it, the room was spinning wildly. She had a single moment of clarity, just long enough to drop the knife on the counter, before crumbling to the floor.

Her lungs scream as she gasps in ragged breathes, but there's not nearly enough air, not even close. The shaking has started and her body curls in on itself in an attempt to lessen the effects but even then, it hurts. Tears burn her face, and the sound of a high pitched humming was coming from somewhere inside of her chest.

The darkness creeps into her mind, along with the numbness, as it often did right before she blacked out. Darcy was ready for it to end, even though it felt like dying every time.

But then there was a voice, calm and slow and warm. It was speaking to her, calling her name, and she didn't want it to stop because it was keeping her above the nothingness that threatened to consume her.

It continued to talk in soft words and there was an addition of warmth on her stomach. It is splayed out, just below her sternum, and it pushes and pulls.

Darcy smiles, or tires to, because she remembers this. It's soft and it's helping her breath through the spasms. _In and out, push and pull_. Her body isn't curled up anymore, but it does continue to tremble so she leans back, happy to find the solid figure from before.

It's like trying to swim through mud, thick and hopeless. She usually just let's herself sink until she was nothing, but someone had thrown her a rope and was helping to pull her through. Slowly and patiently.

When the haze fades, Darcy knows that it was Steve again. But this time, instead of pushing away, she simple allows it, not having the energy to fight. His words are clear now that there's nothing to stop them, and she hears him speak in a low hum.

"Hey, kid." He whispers when she starts to shift. Her face is warm and her muscles protest, but she can't stay inside the comfort of his arms for the whole night. Not when all of her fears were starting to make their way through the after effects.

His hand falls from her sternum and the warmth at her back is gone. He tells her to stay sitting when she starts to struggle in an attempt to stand, and while Darcy would normally argue, she found she had zero will for this battle.

Cat is sitting diligently by her feet, eyes wide and tail flicking. She waves to him, enjoying the little meow that greets her, but he soon scurries away as Steve comes to sit by her side, a glass of water in his hands.

She doesn't look at him, but takes the cup that's offered and mutters a weak thank you. The burn in her throat is cooled by the liquid and it helps, too, with the pounding in her head. Minutes tick by as her body comes down from the massive influx of emotions and strains.

He's silent now and from the corner of her eye, she can see him staring up at the ceiling. There's a tenseness with the way he's sitting that makes her stomach twist in guilt. He had come after all, only to find her, once again, in the midst of another massive anxiety attack.

"Sorry." Darcy sighs heavily, laying her head back against a dark green wall and closing her eyes.

"For?"

"That." She waves her hand up and down, signaling towards her body and its inability to _not_ freak out. "And the fact that you've had too bear witness to it, _again_."

He's quiet for a minute and she can't help but glance over at him. He's regarding her intently with those dark blue eyes, but with a fraction of the tension she'd seen only moments ago.

"I used to get them a lot. Back before I was this." It's his turn then, to wave his hand across his body, and Darcy takes the opportunity to examine his form. He's built like a brick house, and has the power to match it, but the way he sits and talks and just _is_ , makes all of that strength seem meaningless. "My best friend back then… He would help me through them."

His shoulders hitch up into something like a shrug and she wonders if it's because he's uncomfortable talking about the before, or the friend. But then Darcy realizes that he's actually talking. That he's here and not running or any number of the horrible things she'd thought.

"I never got them before." She admits quietly, turning the now empty glass around in her hands. "I'm not really sure when they started but it's like falling down the-rabbit-hole-from _-Hell_ every single time, and apparently I'm the worlds shittiest Alice, cause' I've yet to find a way out."

He chuckles at her sarcastic yet accurate description, and the curiously warm sound makes her lips twitch. She watches his face intently, soaking up the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, and how he runs a hand along his mouth and beard, as if he could hold onto the laughter. They sit together on the wooden floor for a few more minutes, the silence this time being much more comfortable.

But dinner needed to be made, and questions needed to be answered.


	7. Chapter 7

Two and a half years was a long time live apart from the world.

It was _, by far_ , one of the hardest things Darcy had ever done- to leave everything she'd ever known and all the people she'd loved. All of her life, she had been a social butterfly who had thought the very best of everyone, no matter what. Even her time at Culvers had been nothing short of amazing, and the internship with Jane and ensuing adventures were experiences she would forever appreciate.

Even if it meant having 'died' because of them.

And now, to be around someone who knew of her, who had lived within the same circle of chaos, was to court a certain kind of heartache. Darcy would be forced to brave through her tumultuous thoughts, to converse openly about a time she both loved and hated. All of the good, the bad, and the very worst memories would be laid out on the table with no ice to hide behind. Steve would _see_ _her_ in a way no one else could.

And yet, Darcy still wasn't going to use this as a valid excuse to get him to leave; to keep him away.

Instead, against all sense, she was quietly preparing a simple meal inside the small kitchen as the peculiar man sat watching her with intelligent blue eyes.

Darcy had found early on that keeping her hands busy with menial tasks helped her to think with a focused clarity. She did so now, working over the rusty gas stove, running through the lists of things to be said. Scents of garlic and bacon lingered in the air, bringing with it faint memories of her childhood, watching her grandmother cook large and complicated meals for the Lewis brood.

She pushes away the stinging pang of sorrow at the thought of her family, though she knows her death would have been a minor blip on their radar. They were too great and fast paced to be bothered by the young girl who got caught up in the dangers of New York and all of the pandemonium. The rebellious woman, with a wild streak and a fast mouth, who thought she was safe amongst heroes and God's. No, they might have been saddened, but not surprised.

There is a pointed shifting inside of her heart, a longing that had been kept tucked away for all of these years. Darcy recognizes it for what is it. The desire for something that was no longer an option for her, not after leaving the game.

Friendship. Companionship. An attachment.

The gusts that whip at the old house is barley loud enough to cover her frustrated sigh as she reminds herself that it was ok to be forgotten. That this death was better than the other, more permanent kind. Safety was important. _Living_ was important. That's why she had spent the last two and a half _god-damned_ years keeping away from everything! And still, the heart that had been cold and hard, now ached with painful longing and would not let up, no matter her logical reasoning's.

Minutes ticked by as Darcy stood, unmoving and tense, in front of the pot of water, watching it slowly come to a boil. She knew Steve would be analyzing her in that calm and unreadable way he had, steady and meticulous and all the things she had hated. But it wasn't quite a stare, not uncomfortable in that sense. More like thoughtfulness. Pondering.

Still, regardless of the ever observant eyes, she forced herself to continue with the food, letting the monotonous preparations calm the inner turmoil she knew would be obvious. It was an extraordinarily easy dish, one that would serve as the buffer needed for such an emotionally demanding discussion.

Darcy's frustration is evident, marking her movements with jerky agitation, and it's made worse by the closing steps in the recipe. The time for talking was fast approaching, causing more mayhem within her mind, as negative thoughts buffeted her. Curse words are muttered under her breath, hopefully quiet enough to go unheard.

The large pot is awkward and heavy, but she still manages to hoist it to the sink to empty its contents into the strainer. And if her hands are shaking again, well, that's to be expected so she willfully ignores them.

Without a sound, Steve stands with practiced grace. Darcy tilts her face to watch him curiously, taking his movements as a distraction from her thoughts. He is a large man- that she's always known, but his presence in the small kitchen makes her heart stammer at the frankly intimidating mass of him. Both solid and fluid, like a well-oiled soldier, but there's a quiet honesty to him that somewhat quells her nerves.

Thoughtfully, and with no sense to hide it, she eyes him.

His face is softer now, in the warm glow of the overhead lights, though there are still shadows that sit inside his blue gaze, telling her of a wall that's been built there. She has one of her own, colder and with none of the softness, and Darcy finds herself unexpectedly envious. Softness and kindness and faith in people were things she could no longer claim, and hadn't thought that she'd ever want to again, but here they were. Among other, thought to be forgotten, sentiments.

Steve still has the manners of a man from his time as he sets the table slowly, moving carefully around her as she finishes with the food. Darcy knows she should be troubled about the domestic way they were working in her kitchen, with the sounds of a crackling fire drifting in, along with gentle hush of mountain winds passing outside the old windows, and yet she simply _wasn't._

The process was quiet and warm, a comfort in the way neither spoke as the table was set and food served. She wonders what he had seen in her to make him stand and help, but too soon they were done and it was finally time to begin the hard part.

The questioning and conversing.

Her lips twitch at the sudden look of concern that crosses his face when he notices there is only one chair. It takes a moment to grab the spare, metal and folded, tucked away inside the pantry closet, and it gives her a second to try and steel her heart as much as one can. She tells herself it's to make sure he doesn't misconstrue the purpose of the evening, but she knows that's not quite honest.

Darcy promptly sits in the second chair before he could say otherwise, knowing full well he'd want to let her have the better one. Even this knowledge, as mundane as it was, made the situation a little more… _real_. She knew him in a way most normal people couldn't claim, and yet, she knew almost nothing about _him_. About who he was behind the mask, behind the history lessons and tabloids.

Who was he, if not a hero? Who is the man?

There's a knot inside her stomach that has little to do with her anxiety about the upcoming questions, because maybe…If she were being truthful with herself, just _maybe_ she doesn't want to spoil this. Maybe Darcy, despite all reason, likes having him here.

But then where would that leave her life? Back in the hands of people who cared nothing for it, back in the game. Back in danger. There was a small pain building behind her eyes at the mental and emotional whip-lash, but before she could address it, he starts to speak.

"I had thought of a hundred reasons why I shouldn't come here tonight." His voice, though quiet and deep, is tinted with confusion. He is looking down at the still steaming pasta dish with a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there a moment ago. The table is small, their plates almost touching, and she thinks that maybe it would have been better to eat in the living room, to give them space. Before she could suggest it though, he shakes his head ruefully and looks up.

It takes a surprising amount of effort, but Darcy holds his gaze, asking him without words why he still chose to come. The solid thud of her heart is background noise to his expression and the way he speaks with such sincerity.

"I didn't want…" He starts only to stop abruptly, a large hand roughly scrubbing his weary eyes. It's one of his tells _,_ a tick he does when he can't find words. "It's probably safer if I just leave, but I didn't want you to think I was…" He pauses again, searching.

"Still involved with _everything_?" Darcy supplies dryly as the fork in her hand twirls mindlessly in the forgotten food. Steve nods stiffly, an internal battle raging behind those sapphire eyes. She thinks it might be whether or not to let down that wall he's built, and the feeling of longing inside her is so strong right then that she's certain her life has just gotten a million times more complicated.

"I thought about it. Among other, unpleasant things. It's why I was, you know…," She waves her hand to the floor where he had once again found her, helping in a way no one else had. Guilt flashes across his face quickly, causing a sharp pang inside her heart, before the strong jaw clamps down, a muscle ticking steadily. He was mad at himself- that much was obvious. But for having unknowingly caused her attack?

The shift inside her was grounded suddenly, no longer precariously balanced between what she _should_ do and what she _wanted_ to do. A side had been picked.

"Thank you." Darcy whispers softly and with great effort. There are unsaid words there and she hopes that he recognizes it for what it was.

An offer. An understanding.

Two and a half years is a long time to be without any sort of companionship. And perhaps that's why Darcy decides then, that her surplus of fears and worries would be put aside for another day.

Because when Steve looks at her with those intensely blue eyes, she sees a hollow loneliness as well as a devastatingly raw hope. The decision had been made within her heart, and if there was one thing Darcy knew about herself, it was that when she made a decision, she stuck to it through hell fire.

It's a fragile thing, to hope for something that was never planned nor wanted. But here they were, two dead people, having found some sort of comradery in unlikely places. And it felt so… good. God, did it feel _right_.

For the first time in two and a half years, she smiles. It's not soft, not really, but it's full of all the things she couldn't quite say. It's a chance. A risk. And maybe it is reckless and stupid to welcome this sort of connection, but Darcy has always been wild; being dead doesn't stop that.

Her heart is thundering now, but this time it's with eager anticipation; pumping hard with a sort of electric optimism that she hadn't felt in so long. Like perhaps, after all of the cold and bitterness and ice, she still might be allowed to have this one thing. This one _real_ connection.

"So, you're really not… still in the game?" The question is stuttered and weak, falling out of her mouth abruptly. It's the last remaining piece of her defense against the possibility of betrayal.

Steve replies without hesitation with a solid _'absolutely not'_ , and she _believes_ him. It could be, and probably will be, the worst thing she'd ever do, but Darcy knew herself enough to know that she wanted this. Desperately wanted the warmth and talking and the understanding.

All she can do is nod and she can see right then that the wall he'd built was crumbling. It wasn't all the way down, but it didn't need to be, not really. Darcy had her own walls, not as tall as they had been, but neither of them needed to be defenseless.

She can feel her lips lift slightly, as he lets out a heavy breath, sounding like a burden being let go. He runs a hand through his over-long hair and smiles back at her, small and uncertain.

"I hope you don't mind, Darcy." His face is soft again, a little light that couldn't be smothered by the darkness in his gaze. "But I am _really_ hungry. I gotta eat whatever it is you made because, seriously, it smells like heaven."

It's comfortable after that, the tension being washed away with food and small talk. He asks about the food, how to make it, and tells her how he's yet to really learn how to cook. Darcy listens and explains and feels the void inside her chest begin to shrink as the minutes pass.

Cat weaves through their legs, casually letting her know he's accepted the strange man who's made her smile. The cold winds are but a whisper, as the house in which she's spent so long being alone, is filled with the sounds of life.

They move to the living room after all of the food is eaten, in large part thanks to Steve and his apparent appreciation of a home cooked meal. The fire is weak, logs having turned black with red and gold embers drifting up towards the outside.

Darcy adds more wood and takes a second to watch as the flames flicker back to life. It's a habit now, to force herself to not take her eyes off of the growing blaze, even as the panic and bile rises with it. She pushes it down easily, easier now with years of practice. She would not let fear take this from her, not after taking everything else.

If Steve notices her pause, he doesn't say anything, to which she is grateful. Tonight wasn't meant for such serious conversations.

Her couch isn't terribly large, but it fits them both comfortably as she lounges with Cat on her lap. Everything is so distant right then. The bookshop, Henry Jr, the world. Here it was just the three of them, talking about food and cooking and about how you can't quite find all of the ingredients so you make due.

"It's actually like how I grew up," He mentions after she explains how hard it was to find fresh fruit this far north. "There's way more kinds, now, but yea, being this far removed makes it harder."

Darcy nods, because he's right but more than about just food. She doesn't say this though, in fear of ruining the calm that they have somehow created. She also files away that bit about his past because it's new information about who the _man_ was outside of the mask.

The conversation lulls after that, both of them quiet in thought until Cat uncurls himself, stretching dramatically. It's only then that Darcy realizes the time, surprised at the amount of hours that had passed.

He notices as well, and from the corner of her eyes, she sees him frown. With a small effort, she ignores the flutters that stir inside her stomach, instead focusing on the way he moves.

There isn't an easy joke on her lips, nor an expectant goodbye as he makes his way to the front door. She follows but only because she wasn't sure what else to do or what to say.

The large brown jacket, padded and insulated, is pulled onto his broad shoulders with a seeming reluctance, but she knows he's got to go. They both had lives to get back too.

Darcy can feel the terrifying truth of her longings of companionship. That it might not be more than this night. That their previous encounters were all there was going to be, and while that might have been what she had wanted before, it certainly wasn't now.

"I um… I'm going back to work tomorrow." Her voice is disturbingly meek and there's a noticeable uncertainty in it, but she powers through because she really doesn't want to end this thing. Not after feeling normal. Not after feeling safe and comfortable and not like the coldhearted woman she had to be with others. "If you're still in town, maybe… I've got some cook books. Or…" She shrugs then, unable to look up at him, instead focusing on his hand that's wrapped around the door handle.

There's a pause and she's sure that he can hear her thoughts, _they were so loud_ , but then he speaks, just as uncertain and quiet.

"Yea, I've got a few days left on this job. I'd like that, to uh, to stop in."

She's not sure if she hides the relief as well as intended, nodding with a small tilt to her lips. The thundering of her heart is slowing down and when he finally _does_ leave with a small 'see you tomorrow' before closing the door behind him, Darcy finds sleep is harder to find more so than normal.

It might have something to do with the shift in her world. That there is something to actually look forward to, rather than fear.

And she knows her life is being disrupted again, but this time…

This time it's with hope.


End file.
